


This Body Doesn't Feel Like Mine

by QueenOfNewOrleans22



Category: Bon Jovi (Band)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 13:15:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29171733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenOfNewOrleans22/pseuds/QueenOfNewOrleans22
Summary: Richie wished that he could hide Jon from the world, but it was all futile. "I know."
Relationships: Jon Bon Jovi/Richie Sambora
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	This Body Doesn't Feel Like Mine

**Author's Note:**

> I won't be here tomorrow.

The coffee had gone cold. The milk tasted sour. In the vaguest of ways, Richie supposed that he should toss what remained of it down the drain, but he couldn't muster the energy. He was too tired, not mentally, as he typically was and should've been, but physically. If you would've told Richie a few years back that he would be whining about how much his legs and back hurt, then he would've laughed, but that moment was not the time. 

By pure estimation, Richie was pretty sure that they were in Vancouver, but he could've been wrong. The lights were fuzzy outside, and the darkness of the growing night made it hard to read any signs, but there were ominous shapes in the distance that looked like mountains, so Richie decided to put two and two together and assume for the best. 

It'd been a long few months. Richie had missed his mother's birthday, had gotten the flu, and somehow ended up with a cold cup of coffee from a groupie who seemed just as done with life as Richie was. But yet, persevered with the strenuous task of forcing the liquid down as he waited, and waited, and waited. 

Richie glanced at the clock, and saw that it was long after midnight. He was exhausted but too amped up to sleep, and left to drink his cold coffee while he waited patiently for Jon to come to their room so they could share some alone time together after several weeks of sleeping in the bus because Doc, that cheap bastard, had forgotten to book hotels in advance. 

With his love for schedules, Jon should've been in the room by now. He usually would've been, anyways, but he was mysteriously absent and Richie was wondering if he should get up and look for him. Maybe Jon had fallen asleep already, but that just wasn't how he did things and Richie knew it a little too well. 

In the last two or so years, more, if you counted the time that they hadn't been together, Richie had begun to learn the guys' habits as if they were his own. He knew that Tico smoke cigars because they reminded him of his grandfather, and that Alec was afraid of being alone so he took a girl to bed every night. Richie also knew that David talked to himself when he was nervous and that when Jon made a plan, he stuck with it. 

So, as the time continued to pass, Richie began to juggle the idea of just going to sleep and hoping that Jon arrived, or going to look for him. Neither idea held much appeal, but Richie couldn't just sit there, drinking his cold coffee and picking at a scab on his hand. He sighed, and fought to push down his worry back into the depths where it'd come from. 

Richie stood up, and he walked across the room. His duffel bag was on the bed, open but still filled with his clothes. Richie picked up the phone and he dialed in a number, pressing the phone to his ear and waiting patiently as the phone droned on and on. "Hello?" The receptionist said in a tone halfway between perky and bored, as if she'd been falling asleep but had managed to salvage some hot coffee for herself. 

"Can you connect me to room three-seventy-five, please?" Richie asked, tapping his foot on the ground as he waited for an answer. Jon's room was on a whole different floor, and Richie didn't want to have to go all the way down there just to find that Jon had already left. 

"Of course, sir." The receptionist replied, and there was a soft _click_ noise before the line went silent. 

Equally as quiet, Richie waited, wondering if Jon had maybe gotten lost, but he could've just went downstairs and asked for directions, couldn't he? Richie went through all the possibilities, a firm frown on his face as the silence continued like a broken record. He supposed that Jon, in his usual wild-haired chaos, had gotten caught up with whatever else he had found the need to do, but Jon usually took the time to warn Richie before he disappeared in a work frenzy. 

The wallpaper had a weird design, like dogs on stilts. Richie tilted his head and tried to figure out what the hell he was looking at, still listening to the dull silence, expecting for the receptionist to reappear and say that there was no reply so he might as well get off his lazy ass and investigate what was wrong. 

Finally, there was another _click,_ and then the sound of a ceiling fan, lazily whirring around and around in the air. "Yeah?" Jon sounded like he'd been crying. Richie didn't like how he could immediately pick up on that, but he supposed that the stuffy nose and hoarse voice were goof enough signs that somebody had been upset enough to start crying. 

Richie licked his lips, suddenly realizing that he felt more awake now. He could open his eyes fully, anyways, without any struggle. "Hey. What happened, man? I was waiting for you." Richie wasn't sure if he wanted a response, because he was afraid of what was waiting for him at the other side. 

It took a lot for Jon to cry, and Richie didn't like to think of what would've upset him enough to get him from lighthearted but stressed to full-on crying in less than an hour. Richie glanced at the clock again, but he was further away and couldn't see the numbers so it was effectively useless. 

There was a short stretch of silence, and Richie waited, although he was beginning to get a little impatient. He picked up his watch from the bedside table and looked at the time, before setting it back down and shifting as his feet began to complain from the lack of movement. 

"I'm sorry." Jon said. "I'm sorry. I meant to - to go up there. I'm sorry. I'll be up there in a minute, 'kay?" He spoke quickly, as if wanting to get the whole situation over and done with before Richie could interject and ask the dreadful questions. 

Richie opened his mouth, but the dial tone answered whatever questions that never came into reality and he groaned, slamming the phone back down onto its holder, his annoyance sprouting like a plant from the soil. He thought back to earlier that say, but aside from his usual exhaustion, Jon had been acting normal, and had even been unbothered by the things that usually sent him into a mood. 

Left to wait for Jon to make his appearance, Richie walked over to his bed and sat down on it, flipping through his memories like they were pages of a boring book. He didn't think that Doc had said anything that would've upset Jon, and it'd only been an hour! Nothing bad should've happened. Richie considered quickly calling one of the guys, but they were probably already asleep, and he didn't dare wake one of them up, which would've traded his curiosity for Tico's or Alec's wrath, or ending up being the one who was used as David's pillow. 

The bed was soft, and Richie lay down on his back, thankful that he wasn't sleeping on the cot in the bus for once. He missed _home,_ with its warmth and peace, but Richie enjoyed being on tour, even if it usually ended in misery because tour didn't seem to enjoy him. 

Then again, spending weeks on end, trapped in a tiny, confined bus, trying to drink coffee but then the bus would hit a bump and the cover would end up all over whoever was drinking it wasn't exactly a pleasant experience. Richie sighed and buried his face in his hands, wondering when life had gotten so damn hard. 

Oh, how it seemed like such a long time ago, when they'd all gather at some rundown bar and play a few songs. Richie smiled at the memory of when it'd all come together so many years prior, of how Jon had looked at him, torn between humor and incredulity, when Richie had approached him about the position of being the guitarist. 

Who knew, that a single moment of bravery, could shape an entire life? 

Richie sat back up and then stood up, walking into the bathrooms. He didn't bother to turn on the light, just walking over to the sink and turning on the faucet so he walk cup his hands underneath the cold stream. Richie splashed the water on his face, taking a deep breath, eyes closed. 

There was a quick knock on the door, and Richie startled, opening his eyes and shutting off the water. He turned around, blindly searching for a towel before he found one and pressed it against his face. "I'm coming!" Richie yelled, walking quickly over to the door, unlocking it and opening it without checking through the peephole, strands of dark hair clinging to his damp face. 

Instead of the smile that Richie had hoped so desperately to see, Jon was frowning. He looked at the other man with sad blue eyes. "Why are you wet?" Jon asked, like it was some great mystery. 

"I was washing my face." Richie replied, his concern growing like a ball of dough in his chest. He leaned against the door, arms crossed loosely over his chest, unsure of if he should push for answers if Jon were to play obtuse. "What's wrong? You've been crying." Richie felt his heart ache uncomfortably at the look that he was given in answer. 

"No, I haven't." Jon said, but it wasn't a convincing lie, and they both knew it. He shifted and rubbed at one of his eyes, looking deeply uncomfortable and rather nervous. "It's just - allergies." He said. 

Richie groaned, rolling his eyes as he grabbed Jon's sleeve and pulled him inside of the room. He shut the door with his foot, smiling weakly at Jon, hoping to lull his jittery nerves. "Now, we both know that you're lying." He said. "So, how about we both just sit down, and - " Richie went to pull Jon toward the bed, but Jon dug his boots into the floor. 

"No! No." Jon pressed his hands against Richie's chest. "Please don't make me." 

"What?" Richie frowned. "Why would I make you? What the hell happened?" He raised his hand to brush Jon's hair away from his face. 

"It's fine. Sorry." Jon muttered, pulling away from Richie's touch and wrapping his arms around his torso. He bit his bottom lip, looking pensive. "It's fucking stupid." 

"Well, you were crying about it, and you usually don't cry because somebody accidentally body checked you on the subway." Richie said. "I won't judge you for anything, you know that." But he was fighting a losing battle, and Richie knew it. 

Jon just looked down at the floor, shuffling slightly. 

With a sigh, Richie walked away and he went back over to the table that he'd been sitting at. He grabbed this mug and walked back into the bathroom, where he tossed the liquid down the drain and watched as the brownish-white swirled around in the drain before it was sucked down. Richie set the mug aside and looked at himself in the mirror, shaking his head once before turning around and walking back into the room. 

Silent, but with his shoulders shaking, Jon had buried his face in his hands and was sobbing again. He looked oddly small in the room, shoulders shaking and gasping for breath like a man who was being strangled. Jon shifted and then pressed one of his hands against his mouth to muffle his sobs. 

Richie wondered, distantly, if somebody had died. "Hey. I thought that you were done crying." He walked over, pressing his hand against the small of Jon's shaking back. 

"I'm sorry. God, I'm sorry." Jon said. It seemed to be the only thing that he could say in his current stricken state. 

"Shut up." Richie pulled Jon into his arms, not knowing what else to say, but deciding that he needed to do something. He stroked Jon's messy hair. "Unless you're gonna tell me what upset you." He added after a minute. 

Jon buried his face against Richie's neck. "It's so - it shouldn't - " He took a deep, shuddering breath that seemed to come from the depths of his chest. "It shouldn't bother me after all these years." Jon said. 

It took Richie a minute. It had taken him more than that, actually, but in that sudden moment, the pieces finished clicking, and Richie realized why Jon had been acting so strange. " _Oh."_ He said in a soft voice. "What happened, baby?" 

"Some lady recognized me." Jon whispered. "She smiled at me. Asked if I remembered her. And I said yes and she said that I - I - " He broke off suddenly, his face flushed red from a strange combination of embarrassment and shame. 

"Okay." Richie hurried to say, pressing one of his hands against Jon's back and then the other against his head. "Well, that explains some thing" He rested his forehead on Jon's shoulders even though it strained his neck because he was too tall to do it. 

"It makes me feel _dirty."_ Jon moved his arms so he could wrap them around himself again. "I feel dirty, so fucking dirty." He shut his eyes tightly, as if so desperate to hide himself from the world. 

Richie wished that he could hide Jon from the world, but it was all futile. "I know."

"I don't feel like _me."_ Jon pulled on his hair, breathing fast and harsh. "I don't feel like me, Rich. I don't feel like me." He repeated it like there was some hidden meaning to his words, wiping his hands on his clothes, as if to rid them of some invisible dirt. "I'm dirty. I'm dirty, gross. I feel gross." He looked at Richie with lost, wide blue eyes. 

"I know you do. I'm sorry. I don't know how to help you." Richie lightly squeezed the other man, hoping to lull him back down. "I don't know how to help you." 

But, by God, Richie hoped more than anything that his mere touch could help, even in the vaguest of ways. "You're not dirty. They made you feel that way but you're not. I swear." He whispered. 

Jon was silent, but he held onto Richie a little bit tighter. 


End file.
